


There is Just One Thing I Need

by TearCatcher



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Mistletoe, Pining, Pre TTYG, Secret Santa, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 20:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13084383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearCatcher/pseuds/TearCatcher
Summary: Pete comes up the idea for the band to do a Secret Santa to give him an excuse to get Patrick a present. Things do not go according to plan. Featuring pining, cuddling in the van, mistletoe, and a Christmas tree with a ninja turtle on the top.(Or - All Pete wants for Christmas is Patrick)





	There is Just One Thing I Need

**Author's Note:**

> Set in 2002, in the "Take This to Your Apartment". Title is from “All I Want for Christmas is You”. Don’t judge me.

Pete’s fingers are clenched on the steering wheel, so tight they ache. He’s leaning far forward in his seat, desperate to see as much as he can. He’s flushed with anxiety, his skin overheated and prickly, but he doesn’t dare take a second’s attention from the road to fiddle with the heat - nor does he think his bandmates would appreciate it if he did. Pete’s dad had asked him whether the van had good tires on it before they embarked on a trek in the northeast in December. Pete had waved off his concerns and assured him the van was a fine, sturdy vehicle in any type of weather. But right now, as he attempts to drive through blinding snow barely swept off the windshield by the pathetic, dryrotted wipers, feeling the tires sliding all over the road every few minutes, Pete is rethinking the van’s winter worthiness.

When a glance at the speedometer shows he’s barely going 30, Pete groans. They’re never going to be on time for their next show at this rate. He presses his foot more firmly on the gas pedal, and is instantly rewarded by a violent fishtail that goes all the way into the next lane. All the occupants of the van spring to life, a chorus of swears and Pete’s name. Pete panics for a moment and hits the brakes, before taking his foot off and riding the momentum until he can steer back into his rightful lane.

“That’s it!” Andy calls from the back. “Pull the fuck over! I’m driving.”

Pete’s heart is hammering in his chest. He wants to pull over and throw up, or maybe pass out, but instead he retorts, “I’d like to see _you_ drive in this shit better!”

“You will!” Andy shoots back. “Seriously, pull over.”

“He can’t pull over on the side of the road in the snow,” Patrick points out sensibly. “He needs to look for a place to stop.”

“Next gas station or Taco Bell or whatever, you’re stopping,” Andy intones.

“Okay, okay,” Pete mutters, glaring out into the snow.

“And in the meantime, _slow the fuck down_!”

Pete is beyond relieved that there’s a gas station not even five miles down the road. He pulls into the lot and kills the engine, taking a moment to lean back and close his eyes and take a deep breath. He startles when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Patrick says lowly into his ear, “you did fine. We’re all okay.”

Pete closes his eyes again and savors the warmth of Patrick’s hand seeping through the material of his t-shirt. He wants to turn and nuzzle it, kiss each finger. Pete can sometimes be ambivalent about dying, but he knows taking Patrick with him would be the worst tragedy imaginable.

Pete has no money, and their last stop was too recent for him to need to use the bathroom again, but he struggles back into his hoodie and goes inside the gas station anyway, where Andy is pouring himself a gigantic cup of coffee. Pete idly skims the magazine rack, the colors harsh on his eyes after staring into black and white for so long. At first he’s not even registering the gratuitous Christmas music broadcast on the speaker above his head, but for some reason his drive-numbed brain tunes into the jingle of sleigh bells signaling the start of a new song, followed by Mariah Carey’s overblown vocal runs. _I just want you for my own/more than you could ever know/Make my wish come true/All I want for Christmas is you._

Pete’s gaze drifts to the back of the store, where Patrick is making a decision between Yoo-hoo and soda like his life depends on it, undoubtedly fuzzy-brained from fatigue. Pete takes a moment to study the wisps of blond hair poking out of the bottom of a beanie, and the luscious curves in worn jeans, until he realizes he’s identifying way too closely with a fucking Mariah Carey Christmas song of all things. He scrubs at his eyes and tells himself he needs to get a fucking grip.

Pete makes his way to the candy rack and places a package of Starburst next to Andy’s coffee just as Andy is digging into his pocket to pay. Pete has his most beguiling smile at the ready as soon as Andy turns to glare. He’s pushing his luck, but getting himself into trouble is the best distraction he knows. Andy must not be in the mood to argue, because he simply sighs and tells the cashier to add the candy.

Back in the van, Pete gratefully takes a spot on the bench seat, sandwiched between Patrick and an amp. Despite his indignation at being demoted from driver, if Andy wants to take responsibility for driving, Pete is more than happy to stay back here in the physical and mental warmth of Patrick’s presence and ignore the shitty weather. He rips the Starburst all the way down the side and lets them spill into his hand, plucking out the yellow ones and presenting them to Patrick. The genuinely pleased grin he gets from Patrick in return makes him feel tingly all over, and he lets his lips linger on the mouth of the Yoo-hoo bottle Patrick passes to him in reciprocation. The entire exchange takes place without either of them uttering a single word. Pete has never known anyone else he can communicate with in total silence. When the candy is gone and Patrick’s Yoo-hoo is empty (a revolting combination, really, but Pete will never turn down anything Patrick offers him), Pete finally breaks the silence by asking, quietly hopeful, “Do you mind if I lean on you?”

Even in the darkness of the van, Pete can see the exasperated look on Patrick’s face. It hits him like a physical punch to his heart and he turns away, resigned to leaning against the hard, cold amp. 

“Hey,” Patrick says, yanking him forcefully by the shoulder into his side. “You don’t have to ask, asshole.”

Pete’s entire body is relieved and he sinks into Patrick, slipping an arm around his lower back and burying his face near his armpit. Patrick no longer sits stiffly and awkwardly, unable to relax while waiting for Pete to settle, like he did when Pete first initiated this type of cuddling at the beginning of their friendship. Now he participates, wrapping his arm around Pete’s shoulders in a familiar way, turning into him so that their bodies fit together. 

“I don’t want to bother you,” Pete murmurs into the comfortingly smelly fabric of Patrick’s denim jacket. 

“Gotta stay warm somehow,” Patrick grumbles, and Pete once again starts analyzing, wondering if this is merely about warmth to Patrick, or whether it means something more.

Pete doesn’t fall asleep, but he drifts in a dreamlike state against Patrick’s side, syncing his breathing with the gentle rise and fall of his body, a calm settling over him like magic. All he wants for Christmas is Patrick, but Patrick deserves an incredible Christmas gift. A guitar is out of Pete’s reach, but maybe he can ask Joe for help picking out a new (used) pedal Patrick would like. But what about Joe? He can’t get Patrick a fairly expensive gift and ignore Joe, Jewish or not. And he has another bandmate to consider, too…

Pete has just come up with what he thinks is a solution to his problem when Andy announces fuck it, the weather has only gotten worse and there’s no way they’re going to make it to their next gig anyway, so it’s time to take a vote on using the band’s meager funds to get a room for the night. It’s a unanimous decision, and within a half hour they’re dragging the frayed, wet hems of their jeans down the dingy hallway of a Super 8. 

Pete immediately calls the manager of the club they’re supposed to play tomorrow to explain they won’t be able to make it. She’s understanding, thankfully, but it still pains them all to miss a show. Worried mothers are then called and lulled into a false sense of security by their boys’ wise decision to stay somewhere for the night. Pete drapes himself across the end of his and Patrick’s bed, ready to make his proposal to his bandmates now that they’re all settled in with _A Christmas Story_ flickering on broadcast cable - Patrick sitting against the headboard, Joe crosslegged in the middle of the other bed with a bag of Cheetos, and Andy in the worn armchair in the corner with a book. 

“We should do a Secret Santa!” Pete announces, sitting up and using his rally-the-troops voice. He looks around the room and is met by three sets of unimpressed blue eyes. “Come on, it’ll be fun! This is our first Christmas in the apartment together! We’ll draw names and whoever’s name you get you buy a gift for. That way we don’t have to go broke buying gifts for three people.”

“I’m Jewish, remember?” Joe says pointedly. “I wasn’t going to buy gifts for any of you fuckers anyway.”

“You already bought a gift for your girlfriend!” Pete exclaims. “I figured you still celebrate Christmas.”

“I bought a gift for her because _she_ celebrates it and I’m a good boyfriend,” Joe explains patiently.

“Well, _we_ celebrate it and you should be a good friend!” Pete is about to say something stupid and offensive about bros before hoes when Patrick speaks up. 

“Do you know what I had for lunch the day before we left for this tour? A random container of leftover Chinese I found in the fridge - “

“That’s where that went!” Joe interjects. 

“I don’t have any extra cash,” Patrick continues, ignoring Joe. “And you don’t either.”

“We’re going to make a little bit on this tour - “ Pete begins. 

“Dude, I have to buy my mom a gift,” Patrick interrupts. “And you know what’s a week after Christmas?”

“New Year’s Day?” Pete asks, confused at what Patrick is getting at. He’s sure he’s not suggesting they throw a party. 

“Otherwise known as January first,” Patrick says. “That means _rent_.”

“We can put a limit on it!” Pete says desperately. “Or some gifts don’t even have to cost money, ya know.” He gives Patrick a meaningful look. Patrick merely eyes him dubiously. 

Defeated, Pete slinks off to the bathroom to brush his teeth. It’s not a pursuit he’s necessarily invested in, but it buys him some time to himself. He’s crushed that Patrick wasn’t instantly thrilled at the possibility of getting Pete a Christmas gift, or at receiving one from Pete. When he emerges feeling thoroughly sorry for himself, purposely avoiding looking at anyone, he jerks up his head when he hears paper ripping.

Joe is folding four squares of paper from the courtesy pad of motel stationary. “Okay, let’s pick names,” he says, dropping them into the beanie Patrick hands over. 

“But - but - I thought you were Jewish!” Pete stutters. This is all wrong. _Pete_ was going to be the one in charge of drawing names - to ensure he ended up with Patrick’s.

“I am converting to Christianity solely to participate in this Secret Santa,” Joe deadpans. He presents the hat to Patrick first. 

Patrick pulls out a name, opens it, and quickly sticks his hand in again. 

“Hey! You can only pick once!” Joe yelps, shutting the hat closed around Patrick’s hand.

Patrick gives Joe a look of annoyance. “I got my own,” he explains with a scoff. 

Joe sheepishly allows him to remove another slip and put the other back. Patrick opens this one and gives a satisfied nod. 

“Pete?” Joe holds out the hat.

Pete hesitates a moment. The whole reason he wanted to do this was to get Patrick a present. 

“I thought you’d be happy,” Patrick says. “You got your way. You love that.”

“Why’d you change your mind?” Pete asks, stalling for enough time to send a little prayer to the universe that he gets Patrick’s name. He has at least a thirty percent chance. 

“You’re right - one gift is doable,” Patrick says. “Now are you gonna pick or not?”

Pete reaches into the hat and withdraws a piece of paper. He unfolds it and his face must visibly fall when he sees “Andy” written on it, because Joe immediately says, “No exchanges!” and moves on to Andy.

Pete plasters a fake smile on his face and jokes with his bandmates about increasingly ridiculous gifts they could get each other, all the while cursing himself for coming up with such a stupid idea. Not that he doesn’t care about Andy - or even that Andy will be difficult to shop for - but Andy is not Patrick, and he’s jealous of whoever gets the privilege of seeing Patrick’s eyes light up when he opens their gift. He should have just went ahead and gotten Patrick a Christmas present on his own. Now he’s set it up so that he pretty much _can’t_ get him one. What kind of “Gift of the Magi” bullshit is this?

Once they’re back home (mercifully with no further near accidents or other missed shows), one of the first things Pete does is visit his mom. She plies him with food, as usual (and a little cash his dad isn’t to know about) but she also gives him something extra he’s currently trying to wrest up the stairs to the apartment. 

“Patrick!” he bellows, his voice kept from carrying by the huge cardboard box in front of him. He knows Joe is at work, and he hopes Patrick is awake. That fucker will sometimes sleep through the daylight hours. The corner of the box snags on the stair in front of him and Pete runs into it. He curses loudly and then yells Patrick’s name even louder.

“Pete, what the fuck are you - what the fuck _is_ that?” Patrick emerges from the door to their apartment in his boxer shorts and a worn t-shirt, complete with fabulous bedhead. Clearly he hasn’t been awake for long, and recently awakened Patrick is one of the most adorable Patrick iterations (albeit not the most friendly). If Pete weren’t trying to avoid getting knocked backward down the steps by a gigantic box, he’d be checking that out big time, especially those pale, squeezable thighs. 

“My mom’s getting a new Christmas tree for the sunroom, so she gave me the old one for the apartment,” Pete says gleefully. “Can you give me a hand?”

He senses rather than sees Patrick roll his eyes, but Patrick dutifully comes down the steps and grasps the end of the box. “Your mom has multiple Christmas trees?” he asks incredulously, carefully maneuvering backwards up the stairs.

Pete doesn’t appreciate the judgement in Patrick’s voice. Pete is _not_ a spoiled rich boy. “Just the two,” he says touchily. Patrick snorts but refrains from further comment.

Even though Patrick is barely supporting the end of the box with his fingertips, it’s enough to help Pete get it all the way up the stairs and into the apartment. He shoves it through the kitchen into the living room and opens it up with a flourish. “Mom gave me some lights and a few ornaments too,” he says, rummaging through the box. 

Patrick, who apparently had been interrupted during his daily half box of cereal, is flopped back on the couch, bowl in lap and spoon in hand. “I didn’t realize you were so into Christmas,” he remarks through a mouthful of Crunchberries. “First the Secret Santa, and now a tree?”

Pete stops pawing through the box and looks up at Patrick. He is totally fucked, because there’s no way a dude sitting in his underwear with milk dribbling down his chin should make Pete feel the way he does. There’s just something about the familiarity and domesticity of it that makes his heart clench. When his mom had offered him the tree, his first instinct was to say no (what would a bunch of grubby boys in a grubby apartment want with a Christmas tree?) but then he thought about sharing it with Patrick - decorating it together and seeing Patrick in the soft glow of the lights - and suddenly he had to have that Christmas tree in their apartment. 

Pete realizes he’s been staring at Patrick a beat too long, but Patrick is either oblivious or used to it by now because he doesn’t give him a funny look or anything. He simply shovels in another bite and resumes crunching. 

“I don’t know...it’s just your first Christmas on your own...I kinda wanted to make it special,” Pete babbles, and his heart clenches in an entirely different way when Patrick’s face rearranges into a scowl. 

“You don’t have to do this for me,” he says disdainfully. “I’ve never really given a shit about Christmas.”

“Oh,” is all Pete says, because his heart is breaking into a million pieces. Patrick can be so goddamn _mean_.

“I hate it when you treat me like a fucking kid,” Patrick mutters, so quietly Pete barely hears him.

“No!” Pete is quick to exclaim, because while Patrick sometimes is talked down to or assumed to be naive because he’s fresh out of high school (and Patrick goes out of his way to be a little smartass know-it-all because of it), Pete is never guilty of that. Most of the time he knows Patrick has a better head on his shoulders than Pete himself does, five year age difference be damned. “It has nothing to do with me thinking you’re a kid! I just love living with you - ” _and I love you_ “ - and I thought maybe this would be fun.” Pete feels like a complete idiot now that he’s trying to explain himself out loud. He puts his head down and mumbles, “It was a stupid idea. I don’t have to put it up.”

Pete cringes at the clang of the spoon hitting Patrick’s bowl. “It’s not stupid, Pete,” Patrick says, an apology in his voice that he won’t verbalize. Pete looks up at him hopefully and Patrick gives him an indulgent but reassuring smile. “How the hell do we put this thing up?”

Assembling the tree and decorating it together doesn’t exactly meet Pete’s Hallmark Christmas movie conception of it - there’s a lot more swearing, for one thing; Patrick remains in his old faded underwear; and Bad Brains on the stereo makes for a rather odd soundtrack - but when they flop on the couch when they’re done, scratches from artificial pine needles adorning their arms, Patrick has a genuinely pleased smile on his face.

“Thanks,” Pete says softy. 

Patrick shrugs. “I’m glad you brought it home.”

_Home_. Before Pete does anything stupid like trying to kiss him, he burrows himself into Patrick’s side. Patrick told him he didn’t have to ask, after all. They may not be sleepy in the back of the van this time, but no conditions were put on when or where Pete could lean on Patrick. 

Patrick doesn’t seem startled or bothered by this out-of-context cuddling; he simply arranges himself around Pete like he usually does. They sit like that in companionable silence, comfortable and familiar, admiring their handiwork. Snuggling on the couch with Patrick, gazing at the Christmas tree they put up together, feels like home to Pete in so many ways. He wonders if it’s like this for Patrick. He knows for sure Patrick doesn’t interact physically the way he does with Pete with any of his other friends; and while Pete may be an affectionate person, prone to giving a pal a smacking kiss on the cheek or thinking nothing of sitting on a buddy’s lap, he’s certainly not in the habit of extended snuggling sessions with anyone he’s not romantically interested in. Pete realizes he’s heading down the all-too-often-traveled road of Does He Or Doesn’t He, so more to drown out his mental noise than anything, Pete blurts out, “So who’d you get for Secret Santa?” 

He can feel Patrick bristle against his side. “I’m not telling you.” 

“Aww, c’mon! Was it Andy?” he asks innocently, purposely saying the person he got to gauge Patrick’s reaction to the wrong guess. 

“It was your dumbass idea,” Patrick snaps, suddenly pulling away and standing up. “Why do you want to ruin it?” 

Pete feels both bereft and foolish for pushing Patrick away. “I don’t want to ruin it,” he says in a small voice. He’s not just talking about the Secret Santa, either. “I don’t know why I say half the shit I say sometimes." 

The sound Patrick makes is exasperated, but his voice is gentler and a bit fond when he says, “When are we supposed to exchange these gifts, anyway?” 

Pete hasn’t actually thought that part through. He’s spending the night at his parents’ on Christmas Eve (he may be 23 but there's no way in hell he’s missing out on opening presents first thing Christmas morning, followed by his mom’s pancakes), and Andy doesn’t even live with them. “I guess whenever?” 

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Then whoever you got isn’t going to get his present until Easter.” Pete’s not sure, but Patrick’s voice sounds a little wistful, or maybe like he’s fishing to find out who Pete got? Pete’s probably just projecting. He settles for glaring at Patrick in only slightly exaggerated indignation, and after Patrick closes the bathroom door and turns on the shower, Pete just sits there and stares at the tree, composing lyrics in his head that he will never let Patrick see. 

Pete can hardly believe his luck when he’s in Walgreens one day and sees _mistletoe_ when he glances over at a Christmas display. It consists of green plastic sprigs bundled together at the top by a red ribbon, and Pete has no idea whether it resembles actual mistletoe, but he walks back out into the chilly Chicago December air cheerfully swinging his bag. 

He realizes as soon as he gets home that there’s no way he’s going to be able to hang it from the high ceilings of the apartment, so he settles for attaching it to the top of the doorframe at the end of the short hallway between the kitchen and living room. He makes a game out of blocking his roommates from going through the door, puckering his lips exaggeratedly, demanding payment for their passage with a kiss. Joe merely fixes him with a flat, vacant stare; Patrick takes a more physical approach and shoves him in the chest, _hard_. One time, when it’s just the two of them alone in the apartment, Pete leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, positioned directly underneath the mistletoe, waiting for Patrick to notice him. Patrick is walking through the living room in that preoccupied way he has (Pete never knows whether he’s thinking about music or astronomy or what he wants for dinner or - he wishes - Pete himself.) When he finally notices Pete, Pete looks at him pointedly before trying to casually flick his eyes upward. In his head it looks suave and maybe a little sexy; in reality he’s pretty sure he only succeeds in a spastic kind of blink. Still, surely it gets his point across. 

He’s prepared for another shove, but instead Patrick’s face falls. He looks defeated and melancholy. “Quit playing around, Pete,” he says, in a quiet voice tinged with a plea. He turns around and heads for his room, leaving Pete standing there stunned, wanting to call after him that he’s not playing, he’s never playing when it comes to Patrick (when it matters, at least), _Patrick, please come back_. 

__Instead, all he can manage is a croaky “I - “ as he watches Patrick’s retreating form. Pete slumps against the doorframe, sliding down to the floor. He sits there, under the mistletoe, his head an endless loop of Does He or Doesn’t He, until he hears Joe’s key in the door and forces himself to get up._ _

__By the time Christmas Eve rolls around, Pete’s holiday enthusiasm has dampened. He didn’t get Patrick’s name; he doesn’t think Patrick got his; and the tree he initially thought as something special between Patrick and him has now become festooned with magazine cut outs, some inflated condoms, and a couple of soda cans, with a Michelangelo action figure at the top. (Okay, the Michelangelo is actually Pete’s doing. Patrick wanted Donatello, but Pete ultimately won because he was the one willing to climb on a chair and affix their makeshift mutant angel.) The band had originally decided they were going to exchange their Secret Santa gifts at their last practice of the year the day before, but Andy had had a flat tire and that practice hadn’t happened._ _

__Pete wakes far too early and starts thinking about how much he doesn’t want to watch Patrick giving Joe a gift or - even worse - watch Patrick receive a gift from Joe (even though any gift Joe would choose for Patrick is sure to be devoid of any true sentiment or meaning). He also feels like a selfish bastard for feeling this way. He ultimately decides to slip out of the apartment early, successfully avoiding both Joe and Patrick while they’re still asleep._ _

__Pete tries to hide how low he’s feeling from his mom, just as she tries to hide how worried she is about him. Pete feels like a terrible son for once again ruining a special occasion with his faked smiles, dark-circled eyes and nonexistent appetite. He goes through the motions and vows to properly thank his parents for the gifts they got him later when he can appreciate them, but by the time they’re sitting down for Christmas dinner, he’s crawling out of his skin with overstimulation - too much light, too much talking, too much everything. He wants nothing more than to get away from it all and soothe himself in the quiet and darkness of his room. He realizes he’s no longer thinking of retreating upstairs to the bedroom of his childhood, but rather his room in the apartment in the city. (He pushes away the thought of the person in the apartment in the city who will also instantly soothe him.) It takes all he has in him to sit there at the table, push his food around on his plate, and nod and smile at the appropriate times. He begs out of dessert, explaining he isn’t feeling well and apologizing profusely to his mom, whose sad eyes tell him she knows exactly what kind of not well he’s feeling, and he practically runs out the door to his car._ _

__The drive from his parents’ house into the city gives him some much-needed solitude and quiet, but sitting in the car has done nothing for his anxious, pent-up energy. Even though he gets a parking spot close to his building for a change, he walks right past it and sets out into the night. Chicago on Christmas is eerily quiet, with barely any traffic and only about half the noise. Pete wishes there was snow swirling in the wind around him, but it looks like a white Christmas is not meant to be this year. He walks until his toes are as numb as his exposed ears and nose, before jogging back to the apartment, stopping in a diner for a bitter cup of coffee to warm himself up on the way._ _

__He can see the outline of the Christmas tree in the window of the apartment as he approaches it, but no other lights are on. Pete supposes he’s going to have the place to himself for awhile, which fits with his plans to retreat to his room with a notebook and a pen. He enters the building exilerated by the cold, his mind focused on the words he wants to write down, rather than the emotions that caused them. His numb hands fumble with the key in the lock, but finally he makes it inside, shucks his jacket, throws his keys on the table - and stops dead in his tracks when he glances in the direction of the living room._ _

__There, at the end of the hallway, underneath the mistletoe, backlit by the soft glow of Christmas lights, stands Patrick, like an angel in an Atticus shirt. He’s holding a flat, rectangular red-wrapped package adorned with a silver bow._ _

__Pete slowly approaches him, looking first at the mistletoe, then questioningly and hopeful at Patrick. Patrick meets his gaze with a cautious yet determined expression. “Merry Christmas from your Secret Santa,” he says quietly._ _

He doesn’t move from where he’s standing, even when Pete reaches out to softly cup his cheek. Any question of Does He or Doesn’t He flies from Pete’s mind and he leans down to finally, _finally_ cover that soft, pink, amazing mouth with his own, experiencing the feel and smell of Patrick in an entirely different way, now accompanied by the added sensation of taste. He faintly registers the rustle of paper between them as he presses Patrick into the door frame but he pays it no mind. He’s too focused on Patrick’s tongue and lips and trying to make as much body contact with him as possible, and to his delight Patrick is giving as good as he gets, kissing back just as fervently and pulling him encouragingly closer. 

__Patrick pulls away first and they both gasp for air, and Pete is ready to dive right back in again, figuring it was only for that breath that Patrick stopped, when Patrick says, far too calmly, “Don’t you want your present?”_ _

Pete blinks at him. “I thought this _was_ my present." 

A slow, pleased smile curls up on Patrick’s face. “I got you an actual present,” he says, tugging at the package trapped between their bodies. Pete reluctantly backs up to allow him to pull it free, then presses himself up against him even more tightly, nuzzling Patrick’s nose with his own and ghosting his mouth over Patrick’s lips. 

“Can I unwrap you first?” Pete asks. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Happy holidays to you all, and special thanks to SnitchesAndTalkers for organizing this!


End file.
